My FatherA Poem by Joshua W. Harris A dark piece that I just randomly wrote in a few minutes out of nowhere. Not sure where this sort of piece really came from, but it just sort of happened. Hopefully it isn't too much.
I'm working,
My father used to say. When I would wander to the cellar in the cool of end of day. The curtains closed, And the task behind it he would work at endlessly was a mystery. Go now, My father used to say, And he would gently push me to the stairs and tell me to go and play. The door slammed shut, And the sound of tools and grunts of exertion cut through the house like a marching band. Welcome home, My father used to say, Before the bodies had been found and the police took him away. They drove off, And the sound of their wheels spinning on gravel slowly faded into the dusk. Now my father says nothing, In the jail house he stays, Locked in a cage with the other birds of prey. His fingers twitch and scratch the walls till they look as though they're flayed. He wants his fix, he needs another rotten man to slay, But the eyes around him keep him from doing what he may. He was a good man, The preacher man lied. A loving father and husband, and he left out all those who'd died. My young hands rubbed together, thinking of the rope he'd tied, A murder they had called it but I knew the suicide. Now my hands twitch ever more as I contemplate the cries, And my future, I quite know, in that cellar does reside. © 2014 Joshua W. HarrisReviews
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